Three Bargains: A Novel

by Tania Malik

  Before these transitions, Madan purchased three apartments in the names of Jaggu’s children, and a villa for Swati and Jaggu. The value of these bits of real estate along with the rental income from the properties should cover the losses Jaggu would incur from the opening of the movie theater in Jeet Megacity. The owner of the movie theater chain had promised Madan that Jaggu could have the job of managing the multiplex theater, if he wanted it.

  Madan’s cell phone beeped. Ketan-bhai and Madan sat up straighter. It was Jaggu.

  “Your people have just left,” Jaggu said. Madan could hear the nervousness in his voice. Jaggu was at the timber factory after many years. “He says he wants to talk to you first.”

  There was the scrape of chairs and the fuss of the phone changing hands. “Leave me,” Madan heard a gruff voice say. Avtaar Singh was sending Jaggu and whoever else was there out of the room.

  He heard Avtaar Singh’s heavy, deliberate inhale. “You should’ve brought me the papers yourself,” Avtaar Singh said.

  “They told you what I want in return,” Madan said.

  This was his final handshake with Avtaar Singh. Never again did he want to hear the name or squander another moment of his life on the conceits of this man.

  “Why do we have to fight?” Avtaar Singh said.

  “Fight?” He was fast losing patience. “I’m not fighting. This is a business transaction.”

  “You can come back, you can help me.” His voice lowered as if he if didn’t want anyone to overhear. “I have no one.” The complaint was soft, but the words were clear with yearning. “I’m surrounded by buffoons, there’s no one I can trust. Who’ll follow me when I’m gone? What’s done is done. Come back to where you belong. It’ll be like before, you and me—”

  “You have your daughters,” Madan interrupted.

  “Daughters?” He was abrupt again, angry. “Girls . . . they get married and leave, they go to their own families. But, my son. I need my son—”

  Madan disconnected the phone.

  “What happened?” asked Ketan-bhai “Did he tell you? He signed the papers; he can’t go back on his word.”

  Madan couldn’t speak. He was at a loss, his agitated heart dragging against the currents of time. I need my son. The words fell gently and landed with a thousand pinpricks. His cell phone rang and Madan stared at it, unhearing. The rustle of Avtaar Singh’s voice filled his ear as he battled the potency of those words, and from some long-unheeded place a quiet wail arose, decrying the infallible power they possessed to undo him. The phone rang on insistently, but his every breath dueled against the wrenching need to run to Avtaar Singh, to be in his presence, to walk alongside him again.

  “Madan?” Ketan-bhai prompted.

  Madan picked up the phone. It was Jaggu.

  “Have you got a pen?” Jaggu sounded excited. “I have an address.”

  Madan trod softly around his room, collecting his things, the morning sunlight still weak and undecided. There was much that refused to let him rest. He contemplated the address on the square of paper before slipping it into his pocket. “Avtaar Singh said Pandit Bansi Lal made all the arrangements,” Jaggu had said. “The address is for a lawyer, an Advocate Naresh Ganguli. But listen to this, his office is near Lajpat Nagar. In Delhi.”

  Delhi? How could it be? The city that gave him shelter, concealing him even from himself, allowing him to rise from his despair, and sending him fleeing back into those very depths again? He’d sped toward it on that clattering train. Had the baby, his child, been on a parallel journey at the same time as Madan back then? Had Delhi hidden them both, even from each other?

  Before following the trail of the address, he needed to make one quick stop. He had driven past the Hanuman Mandir near his house many times, barely noticing the temple’s small white dome and walls decorated with strings of marigolds. The bell rang frequently as the morning worshippers came in, and tendrils of heavy, smoky incense tickled his throat. Madan removed his shoes and bought a cane bowl filled with flowers and prasad from the outside stall before joining the queue of worshippers waiting in line for their blessings.

  What would he have done if Preeti were not there when he had returned from Gorapur? Would he have given up this search and gone after her, or would he have accepted her decision to leave? Either way seemed impossible to contemplate. No longer would he let fate flip his life like a coin, forcing him to choose one side or the other.

  No, now was the time to demand from fate or from himself, or whoever was listening, that he wanted both—heads and tails, before and after, all together and all forever. And he hoped he had the time. Time enough to finish what he was looking for. And time enough to make her understand that if she was not with him, the rest could not exist because it would not matter. One could not be without the other.

  He reached the head of the line. The pandit continued his chanting as he took the flowers and prasad from Madan, placing the offerings before the statue of Hanuman. Madan cupped his hands for the tiny spoon of holy water, sipping it and spreading the rest over the top of his head. The pandit dotted the vermilion tikka, cold and wet, on his forehead. Madan joined his hands and bowed his head, squeezing his eyes shut. But nothing came to him; he could not think what exactly to ask for. “God bless you, son,” he heard the pandit say, and then it was time to move out of the way for the next person in line.

  The drive to Lajpat Nagar was like every other drive in the city, with its amalgamation of fits and starts, crowded red lights and traffic jams. Hopping out to ask a auto-rickshaw driver for directions, the driver turned the car into a drowsy street, inching along, peering at the numbers and pulling up in front of a building with a tempered glass door.

  Madan peered at the name printed in gold lettering on the door: NARESH GANGULI, ADVOCATE. He took out the paper from his pocket to make sure, but he did not need it. This was the place.

  He looked around. There were a few cars parked up and down the road, and a hawker rattled by with a covered cart. He pushed open the doors and walked into the carpeted waiting room, well furnished with potted plants and comfortable chairs. A lady in a heavily starched sari was at the desk.

  “I would like to see Mr. Naresh Ganguli,” Madan said.

  “Mr. Ganguli is in court. Do you have an appointment?”

  “No. When will he be back?”

  “I’m not sure, but if you want to see him you must make an appointment.”

  Madan pinched the bridge of his nose to stop himself from shaking the woman and demanding she call Naresh Ganguli to appear right now. Her phone rang and he took the opportunity to take a deep breath, wresting his temper under control.

  “Oh, Mr. Ganguli,” he heard her say. “Yes, sir. Okay, sir. There’s a client to see you, sir. No, no appointment.” She listened and then placed the receiver against her shoulder. “What’s this about?” she asked Madan. “Did someone send you?”

  “It’s a personal matter. And I’ll wait,” he said, taking a seat. Looking at the messages on his phone, he thought about returning the calls, but was too restless. The hours passed slowly, and Madan nearly nodded off when the door swung open, sending the papers on the secretary’s desk flying.

  “I tell you, Saloni,” said the man who walked in, placing a stack of files on her desk, “one stay order after the other; it’s a wonder any work gets done in this country.”

  Saloni settled her desk and said, “Mr. Ganguli, this is the gentleman waiting for you.”

  “Yes, yes.” He turned around.

  Naresh Ganguli shook Madan’s hand, his head of thick white hair shaking with him. He carefully studied the business card Madan handed him.

  “Come in, please,” he said. “I have a few minutes and we can talk. These days property issues are the number one cases for me. I have come across them all.”

  Naresh Ganguli indicated the chair across from his desk as he took off his black robe and hung it behind the door.

  “It’s not a property issue, Mr. Gang
uli,” Madan said.

  “Oh,” said Mr. Ganguli. “You said personal, so I assumed it was property. I do not deal with family law, you see, I can refer you to someone—”

  “No, no, it’s nothing like that,” said Madan. “It’s . . .” He stopped to get his thoughts in order. What should he say to assure Mr. Ganguli’s cooperation? Maybe he should have brought his own lawyer along. A lawyer knows how to talk to a lawyer.

  Madan took a deep breath. “Mr. Ganguli, it’s about a child, a baby. Over twenty years ago a Pandit Bansi Lal from Gorapur—” Madan broke off.

  Naresh Ganguli went as pale as his hair. He jumped up and shut the half-open door. Back at his desk, he removed a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed his forehead.

  “Who are you?” Mr. Ganguli whispered.

  “Please, Mr. Ganguli, don’t be alarmed. I only want information. I want to know where the child went, who took it. I used to know Pandit Bansi Lal. I know most of his dealings were not so black-and-white, but I’m not here because of that. I just want to know about the baby.”

  “Why?” he asked harshly, a stubborn tone in his voice.

  “Mr. Ganguli,” said Madan. “I am that child’s father.”

  They stared at each other across the desk, each refusing to look away. Naresh Ganguli wiped his brow again. “Look, Mr. Ganguli,” Madan said. “We can be civil about this or not, it’s up to you, but I’ve come a long, long way, and gone through hell to be here. If it’s proof you want, I can go back to Gorapur and bring half the town. All I want is my question answered.”

  “Let me think.” Rising up, Mr. Ganguli paced back and forth. “Once we tried to get in touch, find out if we could meet with the mother or father. We were rebuffed badly, threatened and told it would not be good for us if we tried to look for the parents. It scared everyone.”

  “You tried to find us?” Staggered by the disclosure, Madan stood up.

  “But why now? Why after all this time?” asked Mr. Ganguli, wringing his hands. “The child is an adult.”

  “I know more than anyone how much time has passed,” Madan said. “I mean no harm. Mr. Ganguli, please understand.” His voice choked. “I want to know what happened. I can go on my knees and beg if you want, I can pay you, but I need to find my child.”

  Naresh Ganguli looked like he was going to throw up.

  “You look like you have children of your own, you look like a father, Mr. Ganguli,” said Madan. Mr. Ganguli reluctantly nodded. “Then you understand.”

  Mr. Ganguli stared at him, his eyes buried in a layer of crinkles, a frown cutting his forehead in half. He laid his hand on Madan’s shoulder. “Sit,” he said. “Sit.” He guided Madan down to the chair and took a seat again.

  “It’s quite a shock . . . after all these years . . . hearing the name of Pandit Bansi Lal, Karnal . . . I put it all out of my mind.”

  “You have the information I need?” asked Madan.

  “Yes,” said Naresh Ganguli. “I do. But what about the child’s mother?”

  “She’s not in the picture,” Madan said. “It’s only me.”

  Mr. Ganguli absorbed this and said, “You’ll have to come to my house.” He wrote down the address, handing it to Madan.

  He didn’t take it. “Mr. Ganguli, I really have no intention of leaving without the information I came for.”

  “And you will have it,” he said. “But not here, not in my office. This is a real address, you can check with the receptionist outside. I’ve been in this office for many years. I’m not going anywhere. Come to my house at six o’clock this evening and we can talk more then.”

  Still Madan stubbornly refused to take the card.

  “You have waited this long,” said Mr. Ganguli. “What are a few hours more?” Again he held out the card to Madan.

  Madan finally took it, glancing at the address scribbled on the back of the business card. “Six o’clock,” he said, “but you better have it then.”

  “I will,” said Mr. Ganguli.

  Madan lay atop Arnav’s bed, staring up at the ceiling. There was no more comfortable place in the world. He heard the swish of the bedroom door. Preeti came in, startled to find him at home in the middle of the day instead of at the office.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked. In her hand was a nylon bag. She had come to collect some more of her things. Bit by bit she was disappearing from the house, and from his life.

  He sat up and smoothed the rumpled bedcovers. “I went to see that lawyer, from the address given by Avtaar Singh.”

  She stiffened. “And?”

  “He says he can tell me what I need to know. He wants me to meet him at his house this evening.”

  She was silent, and he willed her not to move. “Preeti,” he said. “After Arnav, it was hard for both of us to understand why we were still alive. How we could still be breathing when he wasn’t.”

  She nodded. “I still don’t know why,” he said. “It seems a miracle, inexplicable, that we are. Such pain should’ve taken us too.”

  Whatever he said next, he wanted to get right. “Pandit Bansi Lal,” he said, “gave me a lot of reasons to be angry with him. But I think the worst thing was he made me question what need or purpose there was to any kind of faith, in God or any other divinity beyond our understanding. So without faith, I did not know . . . could not recognize . . . the blessings that came my way. Without faith, I didn’t need to thank anyone for the miracles in my life. I took for granted that you should happen to me, Arnav should happen to me.

  “But Pandit Bansi Lal also used to say that faith doesn’t come to a man from thin air. It has to have a starting point, a reason to come into existence. My beginning is you. I don’t want you to ever think, to ever feel, that finding my family in Gorapur, and finding my child, will deny you any part of me, this person who is lucky to have you.”

  She leaned against the wall, looking off to the side, but he knew she had heard him. He waited while she wiped her eyes. “Since when have you started talking so much?” she said.

  The strained tightrope he balanced on was unsteady, but he managed a small smile. It was true—in all the years they had been married, he’d probably never said so many words to her in one stretch.

  “Preeti, before I shut up and go back to being my silent self, I want to ask—will you come with me?”

  “Where?”

  “To the lawyer’s place, this evening. Whatever I find out, whatever happens, I want you to be with me.”

  She left the room without a word, but as he collected the car keys from the drawer of the foyer table, he heard her heels tapping on the stairway. She was rummaging through her purse as she descended, in a fresh, simple salwar, her face scrubbed and bright.

  He had never turned to look up at her before. He had been too busy on the phone or he just never noticed. But Arnav had always turned and looked up at his descending mother, scrutinizing her carefully as if committing to memory the effortless joy with which she lived, recognizing what had drawn his father when they’d walked in the park in front of her house before he was born, what had made Madan say to Ketan-bhai, “Yes, why not?” Arnav had done that for him, lest his father should ever forget.

  As they made their way to Alaknanda he glanced at Preeti, her puffy eyelids the only hint of what had taken place that afternoon.

  “Have you brought any cash with you?” she asked.

  “Some,” Madan said. “He did not ask for anything, but I brought some, in case.”

  Turning into the gated colony, they drove past the central park surrounded by apartment complexes. “It’s Phase III B,” he said.

  “There.” Preeti pointed, reading the painted numbers on the wall. Madan parked and they entered the building, climbing the switchback staircase to Apartment 4B. Mr. Ganguli opened the door at the first ring, inviting them in.

  Preeti and Naresh Ganguli said their namastes as Mr. Ganguli indicated the sitting room off to the side. A glass coffee table separated two sofas in the lo
ng room.

  “Please sit,” said Mr. Ganguli. Madan and Preeti sat beside each other, exchanging a confused glance. The coffee table held a veritable spread of food. There were all sorts of crunchy namkeens in silver bowls, biscuits and pastries, rasgullas floating in heavy syrup.

  “My wife will be right out,” said Mr. Ganguli. A woman appeared from the inside of their apartment, followed by a servant holding a server heaped with fresh pakoras.

  Madan did not know what to make of this, and he saw the bewilderment on Preeti’s face as well. They rose to greet Mrs. Ganguli. She stared hard at Madan, but her tone was polite when she said, “Can I get you something? Tea? Or something cold?”

  “No, that’s all right,” Preeti stammered, Madan nodding in agreement.

  “No, please,” she insisted. “You have to have something.” She gave the retreating servant some instructions.

  “We do not want to take up too much of your time,” said Madan. “As you’re expecting guests. If you have the information for us . . .”

  “No we’re not expecting anyone but you. And we’re glad you brought your wife,” said Mr. Ganguli.

  Mrs. Ganguli handed out the snack plates, insisting over their protestations that they take something, and she poured the tea, asking for their preferences in sugar and milk.

  With everyone served, Mr. Ganguli sat back and took a long sip.

  “Mr. Ganguli?” Madan said.

  “Yes, I know,” he said. “I wanted you to come here, to my home, because I wanted Bhavna to be here too. I will start at the beginning,” he said, when he saw they were at a loss for words. “You’re upset with Pandit Bansi Lal, and he was a shady character, I give you that, but he also gave us our greatest happiness.”

  As Naresh Ganguli spoke, Preeti moved closer to Madan as if to shield him. Madan was thankful she was there so she could witness what Mr. Ganguli said, assure him later of what he had heard.

  Naresh Ganguli took frequent sips of his tea to get his thoughts in order, and began his story. Blessed with one beautiful child a few years after their marriage, they were unable to have another. For a long while, they tried a variety of treatments—allopathic, homeopathic, pujas, yatras—refusing to give up hope even when the doctors did. At the time, in Naresh Ganguli’s practice, he used to spend many hours under the creaky fans at Tis Hazari court, swatting at flies and waiting for rulings. Another lawyer whom he knew reasonably well noticed his worry and Mr. Ganguli confided in him.